


At the Widow's Beckoning

by May



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, F/F, Flesh eating, Gore, Malkavian (Vampire: The Masquerade)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 12:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21161816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May/pseuds/May
Summary: You'll be her scuttling legs, her spinneret. You'll bring her whatever she wants.





	At the Widow's Beckoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).

You were the prettiest doll when you were alive. You wore the skins of whatever they desired you to be, then you peeled them off. You knew no secrets, then. You met a stranger who you thought valued your pretty skin and hair and eyes, but he was just hungry. You didn’t die until then, because you knew a sticky web when you saw one; you just didn’t know about this kind.

The Black Widow crouches in the center of hers, though it is not for you. You are to be her crawling legs, her spinneret. You could bring her pretty things in leather and lace, for her to peel down to the bone. But she just wants to rip out a tongue before it can tattle. She tells you that this is what it is, so that you might do it. But her eyes are like the light caught by a diamond, and you don’t much care why she wants you to catch him.

You find him and spin him your own yarn about the mischief of his friends. You don’t even need to press your words against his mind to make him return to the Widow, so that he doesn’t display her to a million eyes on goggling stalks. You know that flies can make quick work of a spider, if there are enough of them.

The Widow is grateful to you and that, slipping past your quiet heart and warming your gut, is almost sustenance in itself. You watch her pull his jaw away from his skull and pluck out his pink, wriggling tongue. It tries to talk, but she puts it on her own tongue and swallows every word.

You collect her a statue when you’re getting a box for the Jester Prince. The box was stolen, but you don’t like the prince much, anyway. Your head hisses when you are near him, and he makes the air taste like lies. The Widow, though, gets her statue.

A pretty bauble might just be want she wanted, but you suspect something lives inside its fragile walls. You have dreamed of Pisha, under a hot sun, dressed in silks and inks. You have dreamed of a love, old like faded velvet, clinging to its ancient lustre. The Black Widow gives you a fleshcrafted chalice, its soul as warped as its flesh has been. It wants to feed you, and that scribbles over everything it once was.

The prince sends you looking for the box, the heart of which you can hear ticking, but the Black Widow wants a book. You find it where they wrap the dead, where you laugh with your own head, because your own skin needs no such thing. The book has its own words to say, though, and it drowns out the ticking inside the box.

The book mutters its portents as you hand it over to the Widow. She taps her fingers against its leather skin, and you think that she must know so much. She must be able to arrange all of the words you have heard so that they might be useful. Perhaps the words are grateful for that.

She gives you a kiss, too. It’s soft, and you feel the quick graze of her teeth, and also the heat of the sun for just a moment. She tastes like the sweetness of vitae, and the dark earth of flesh. The vitae, you know, but the flesh is new. When she pulls away, you lick your lips, thoughtfully.

When you need to get rid of a doll belonging to somebody else, when the doll’s words are prickling the inside of your head like wasps. You’ll send the Widow a present, you think. You want to make her eyes glow, and you want to stroke the velvet of her old heart. The doll goes on her merry way and you concede that she’ll see one more beautiful kindred before she goes.

You decide to watch and, ambling your way through the corridors of the hospital, you take out your chalice for a drink. It blinks, its eye bloodshot and swollen from blood. It might remember, soon, you think. You can hear something keening beneath its need to feed you.

The Black Widow, when you find her, has the doll on her table. The doll is staring at the Widow, her eyes wide, her tongue silent. You can smell her fear but, you think, there is also the pearlescent glimmer of awe. There must surely be, for a doll that loves a beautiful vampire. You drink the sweet vitae from your moaning chalice - perhaps it was two souls, you don’t know - and watch the Widow bend back the doll’s neck. There is a wet crack as it breaks, the skin splits and her head is almost separated from her body. Vitae gushes, and you are thankful that you’re already eating, because the precious smell of it fills the air.

The Widow cracks open the doll’s ribcage and takes out her heart, pulling it free of its arterial anchors, as they fall back into the wet nest of the doll’s chest. She crushes its chambers, the blood dripping between her fingers. Even already feeding, you want to just try it. Your head sings to you as you watch her eat it, and your chalice is not enough for you at this moment.

When the Widow has finished, and the doll lay open and raw on her dining table, you put away your chalice and go to her side. Her heart feels vibrant, and she does not stop you as you take her hand and lift it to your mouth. You put her fingers on your tongue and taste the vitae there. It’s the sweetest thing, and you do not mind the taste of flesh alongside that.

The Widow smiles, her teeth glorious and white, and she puts her other hand on your thigh, brushing it up until it’s underneath your skirt. As she fills you up, you continue to feed on the taste of sweetness, and earth, and warm velvet and sunlight beyond that.


End file.
